


i couldn’t feel, so i tried to touch

by puchuupoet



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety Attacks, Broken Clint Barton, Burnout - Freeform, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Drinking, Gen, Helpful Bucky Barnes, Hurt Clint Barton, Hurt/Comfort, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Protective Bucky Barnes, Rating May Change, Sarcasm as a Defense, The Brokenest Clint Barton, all the feels, fatigue, some blood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-03-07 15:06:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18875632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puchuupoet/pseuds/puchuupoet
Summary: He walks a lot that night. Not for the exercise, but more because he doesn’t want to stop anywhere. There’s a restlessness keeping him from the apartment, the air at the Tower is thick with camaraderie, and Clint doesn’t want to pollute it with his...  mood? No. Ridiculously sexy arms? Nah.Himself. It’s him.





	1. i couldn’t feel, so i tried to touch

It’s a successful mission, even by Steve’s standards, which Clint is pretty sure is like, three times as much as his own. It’s even successful enough that, when Stark demands shots and food and shitty movies in celebration, even Barnes agrees to it. 

There is happiness and warmth soon, from the liquor, the friendships, the gentle jostling that comes from an adrenaline come down. That reassurance that yes, everyone’s still alive and breathing and only bruised this time, nothing broken. Nothing lost.

No one notices how Clint doesn’t seem to be getting as buzzed as fast as he usually does. If it was anyone but Stark, he’d feel bad about the sleight of hand leading to the dumping of so much whiskey. But Tony keeps procuring bottles, and Clint downs another with a wink. 

No one notices when he disappears from the room. 

 

He walks a lot that night. Not for the exercise, but more because he doesn’t want to stop anywhere. There’s a restlessness keeping him from the apartment, not deserving of the pizza dog love, not wanting to bring this _whatever_ it is home. And the air at the Tower is thick with camaraderie, and Clint doesn’t want to pollute it with his... mood? No. Ridiculously sexy arms? Nah. 

Himself. It’s him. 

There’s a weariness to his insides, his skin the hard chocolate coating protecting the oozing mess of _something_ melting inside of him. His brain is telling him that it’s just him, the normal human dude that can’t always keep up with the superheroes. 

_Aw, brain no. You were my only friend._

_No, wait. Lucky has my back._

The thought of Lucky is what jerks him out of his head, makes him realize that no, this is not the neighborhood he lasts remember being in, and maybe turning around now would be a good idea. 

Except his perfect one-eighty spin has him running face first into a futzing wall.

 

He’s grabbed at before he can stumble backwards, strong grips pulling a bit too hard, and then Clint’s back against the wall, just, softer this time. It’s sweatshirt soft, which is weird for walls, and when he cautiously leans back, he sees that his wall is in fact a Barnes.

Hehe. Barn. Barnes. Sometimes the universe does allow him a laugh here and there. 

“Not the stalker I was expecting at 2am. You Uber here?”

There’s a smirk playing about Barnes’ lips, but it’s not that happy exasperated one he gets at Steve, Clints notices. It’s more like that sad not mad but disappointed Natasha shoots him when he finally comes to in the hospital. And nothing ever good comes from those smirks. He wonders if Natasha taught Barnes or if it was the other way around.

“Someone’s gotta keep an eye on you, if you’re not gonna do it yourself.” Bucky seems content staying where he is, right up against Clint, his grip loosening but not yet letting go. Clint’s pretty sure he’s okay with that. Who knows, he might move and run into another wall. Maybe one that’s not Bucky. The night is young and he is reckless.

“Gonna bring my drunk ass back to the fam and tuck me in with water and advil?” Bucky’s grip is starting to itch, even as gentle as it’s become, and now Clint’s pretty sure his melted candy guts are starting to buzz with something new, something panicky. Maybe bees. 

There’s three alleys, four fire escapes, and several distant taxis within his view, all promising escape. Factoring Barnes into the equation, options suddenly implode and… drop to zero. Futz. 

“Sweetheart, you’re not drunk. And not as subtle as you think you are.”

“Ouch, okay, well.”

Bucky’s face softened. “Natalia and I noticed, and she told me you’re a grownass adult.” He pauses, starts to rub small circles with his thumbs and Clint tries hard not to flex his biceps. Oh so hard.

“And…”

Bucky shrugs. “There’s an awful lot of folks being called adults when it’s convenient for others but not for the people themselves.”

“Are you calling me a child? Because you did so in a fancier way than most people do.” Clint tries not to shift under Bucky’s touch but his muscles are twitching and not in that good way anymore. He goes to step back, careful enough to not trip and Barnes’ hands fall away as if he had chosen to do so himself, rather than follow Clint’s lead. 

“‘m saying that we’ve been made to grow up too fast, Barton. Even with all of this,” Bucky gestures with his left hand, the glint catching Clint’s eye. “ _Especially_ with all of this.”

Clint just shakes his head and turns, assuming that if it’s important, Barnes’ll follow. And if not, well. There’s places he can end up that hold little to no emotional ties that he can taint the fuck out of, no problem. He’ll have Kate feed Lucky in the morning.

 

He’s gone two blocks before a slight scuffing sound starts up, a rasp with every other footstep, maybe twenty feet back. There’s a knife in his pocket, something casual he picked up at the hardware store, but harmful enough in the right hands. Or with the wrong intentions.

Clint knows it’s Bucky, can tell by the way it’s an obnoxious noise, an obvious one done by an oblivious dumbass who’s just trying to help and Clint’s chest tightens at the thought. _How bad do you have to be to have the Winter Soldier pity-stalk you?_

The ache thrums through him, familiar enough, especially when it pinches just under his collarbone. It’s that one spot that made him think he was having a shitton of heart attacks until Kate pointed out that it was anxiety. Most likely made worse by the heart attack train of thought. Circle of life and all that jazz.

There’s that soft scuffing still, his skin is hardening again, tensing against the potential of what could happen, what’s already happened. This not knowing, this staring at what he _does_ know will come, eventually, has Clint tensing in exhaustive anticipation.

He stops suddenly, grip tight around the knife and it’s comforting, the way the handle bites into him, dents his palm. He doesn’t realize he’s pulled it out, twisted around, has it braced out in front of him like a goddamn cross until Bucky’s voice cuts through his brain haze.

“Clint, hey!” It’s sharp and soft and god, Bucky sounds _bad_ and fuck, Clint didn’t mean to hurt him, never wanted to hurt that broken man any more than he already had been. “Hey, it’s me. Lemme help you?”

“With what?” He’s guarded, can’t help it when he’s gonna be disarmed and holy hell, Bucky Barnes disarming him shouldn’t make him giggle like this, not right now, but futz, they’re trickling out and Clint can’t breath without busting into laughter. 

And when he opens his eyes, he has to blink the smudginess away in order to see Bucky clearly, a flabbergasted look on Barnes’ face. Clint keeps trying to hold in the laughter, because it _shouldn’t_ be this funny, these tears and this dumbass thought, especially with Barnes slowly reaching out, wide-eyed and cautious, until he’s able to brush his fingertips against Clint’s wrist. Clint lets him take the knife, only pouts a little bit when he watches Bucky toss it to the side, the cheap metal clattering on cement. 

“Aw, knife, no.” Clint goes to step for it, making a grabby hand but that has him gasping out, pulling his arm against his chest. Maybe it wasn’t the handle he had gripped. Shit, he was losing his touch. 

“You’re gonna get blood on your sweatshirt,” Bucky’s soft in his head, all the raspy scuffle gone, and Clint stays still as the other man approaches, pulls a handkerchief out of who knows where, and reaches out with his hand. “May I?”

“I do declare, Mr Barnes,” Clint murmurs and yeah, he’s gone, should probably go home but where is home for someone broken and worthless and bloody. He watches Barnes step closer, silent now, until he’s wrapping fabric over the slice in Clint’s palm. It blooms red immediately and Clint wants to ask Bucky what he sees in the blood blots, get some intel insight that way, but maybe that’s not the right thing to say right now. Clint’s never sure of the right things to say at the right times.

“Let’s go,” Bucky is soft, trying off the ends around Clint’s hand, circling an arm around his back to guide him somewhere else, somewhere not on a sketchy sidewalk at ass o’clock in the morning. 

“‘m not going home.” He doesn’t know where this comes from, of all the dumb thoughts he says outloud, this is not the type that he usually slips up on. This is raw and Clint does not have the goddamn spoons to be raw right now. Especially in front of Barnes.

“I won’t take you home. Bed Stuy, right?” At Clint’s wary nod, Bucky nods back in reassurance. “We’ll go the opposite direction. What’re your thoughts on the Tower?”

Clint stiffens, can’t explain why, can’t explain why everything’s failing him _now_. Especially on a good day. Hell, even Barnes thought today was good, why can’t he? He knows he looks like a futzing fish, mouth gaping, trembling under Barnes’ arm. It’s too much and he didn’t agree to it, especially with an audience. Stupid cute audience.

“You want someplace new, right? Untouched by memories and potential.” Bucky’s mouth is close, his words thrumming through Clint and all he can do is nod, an unintentional wince at the accuracy of the words, at how suddenly _human_ Barnes feels. A flash of guilt collides with the rest of the emotions in Clint’s head. “There’s parts of the Tower you don’t know about, I know, despite all your explorations.” Clint feels the smile against his skin, can hear the brief curl of amusement. “What if we went to one of those?”

Clint nods, faster than Bucky was expecting, but if he thinks too much the walls start to crumble, wear away into dust and that can’t happen now. “Yeah. Yeah, that could work,” he rasps out, and if he sounds this raw and feels this exposed, he can only imagine how Bucky’s seeing him, weak and confused and stupidly injured. 

“Let’s go, sweetheart,” Bucky murmurs against his temple, and futz, Clint can see his barracks starting to tremble and break apart. He does his best to refortify, sucks in air and stands up straight, but he allows Bucky to keep his arm around him on the walk back.


	2. i've seen this room and i've walked this floor

“So. When’d you get this touchy-feely and stuff? You stealing Cap’s gig, taking some of the work off his shoulders?” Clint’s voice drops when Bucky flashes a glare at him. “I mean, I haven’t heard you speak this much since those videos in history class.”

“Quiet,” it’s a low command in a much more familiar tone, from when Bucky had first arrived at the Tower. Back when he would glower from Steve’s side, everything about him deep and dark and threatening, no matter what Steve would say. Clint narrows his eyes and nods. _Fine._

They make it into Bucky’s area with no one seeing them, and Clint’s surprised at the building’s silence. Even Jarvis leaves them alone, and that’s almost as unnerving as Bucky’s earlier use of pet names. Cause what the fuck, Buck. 

Bucky breathes easier once the door is closed and locked behind them, and while Clint wouldn’t call him _relaxed_ exactly, something shifts in the other man’s face, something reassuring. Barnes gestures at him to follow, has them bypassing the sparse living room, down a lit hallway and eventually into the bedroom. It’s… unexpected. Huh.

Growing up on Captain America & The Howling Commandos history, Clint’s aware of the shitty conditions in the war: small cots, minimal space, limited personal belongings. Much like the carnival, but not. Cause no. Which is why Barnes’s bedroom catches him off guard. It’s so normal looking.

There’s light wooden bookcases, actual art on the walls, and dwarfing everything else is the bed. Giant, made of the same light tan wood with a navy blue comforter. It could fit at least three Bucky’s. Maybe half a Hulk, if he squished in a little. He doesn’t mean to math out loud, but it happens. 

“Hmm?” Bucky turns around, meets his eyes for the first time since they entered his area. “You wanted new, right? Unfamiliar?” He holds the gaze until Clint gets distracted by the goddamn smirk growing on Barnes’ face and blinks first. 

“Now what?” Clint trails off, because while Bucky’s right, this is still the Tower, same familiar layout, same _smell_ , and this was not what he was needing or wanting. 

Barnes is staring at him, face unreadable and Clint wants to face him, wants to sass Bucky until he gets kicked out, till Bucky agrees that _yeah, this was a mistake, you gotta handle this alone_ because it’s easier that way, easier with Lucky and a bottle and his walls. 

Easier without other peoples’ emotions futzing up his walls, wearing them down until they crumble. Clint’s running out of energy to rebuild those things, and the alternative isn’t any more tempting. He’s not quite sure what could ooze out of his wreckage. 

“Sit down. On the bed,”Bucky clarifies, walking towards what Clint is sure is either his closet or bathroom. “And take your shoes off.”

Clint does so, although he hesitates with his shoes. Bucky knows he knows why he asked Clint to do so, and Clint has to begrudgingly respect him for that. Even if he doesn’t agree. 

“You know I can still leave without my shoes?” he calls out, wanting to point out the obvious, maybe even gain some ground back. He keeps tugging his boots off and Bucky sticks his head out from the bathroom at the noise. 

“I don’t want New York pavement on my bed. You wanna take off, fine, but I gotta take care of that cut first. Can’t have infection destroy you before you self-destruct, doll. It’s too Victorian.” Bucky returns with a handful of supplies, nodding at Clint. “Lay down, it’ll be easier.”

It’s only a little awkward scooching down on the bed with Bucky standing above him, an amused quirk to his mouth, and Clint does his best to look suave as his shirts get shoved up to his armpits. 

“Is my ankle showing?” he asks, and he really should not be this pleased at the cough of laughter that escapes Bucky. Clint takes advantage of the moment to cover himself back up, not shy, just _exposed_ but his brain’s still stuck on Bucky’s laugh and when he grasps the fabric he remembers too late why he’s even in Bucky’s bed in the first place.

“God fuck it…” He can feel the blood this time, the yawn of his palm where it’s split open and _fuck_ this is such a rookie mistake, one of those weaknesses only he’s capable of. He’s pretty sure Thor doesn’t deal with this shit on a regular basis. 

“Hey, c’mere.” Bucky’s next to him in an instant, perched on the edge of the bed. Pausing, he waits for Clint to look up. “This okay, me doing this? We didn’t actually agree…”

Of course the hot fucker’s asking about consent, and when did he suddenly become hot to Clint? He’s gonna be disappointed in himself if it’s the sudden appearance of blood.

Wait no. It was the Winter Soldier pants. That’s it.

“I know you can’t tell me if you’re going into shock, but are you…?” Bucky’s pressing a cloth to Clint’s palm, eyes flickering between that and Clint’s face. 

“Yes. No. Umm.” Closing his eyes, Clint tries to even out his breathing, the way the doctors had taught him. Way back when his world had just been a shimmering blue prison and self-control was out of reach. “Yes, you can touch, and nope, not shock. Just… distracted.”

Bucky only raises an eyebrow at that, for which Clint’s thankful. He looks down, his left hand in Bucky’s, the cloth already stained through burgundy. 

“How bad is it, doc?”

Lifting the fabric, Bucky’s mouth quirks in response. “You’re dancing on the line between stitches and heavy adhesive, doll. Any preference?” 

Clint groans. This is not how his mopey evening was supposed to turn out. It was supposed to be selfish and full of solitude and beer and maybe pizza. Not… this. He’s suddenly intensely aware of Bucky’s thigh pressed against his own, fingers light on Clint’s wrist. 

“I...whatever. Do what you think is best.” The giddiness from earlier is swirling away, lumping into a pit in his gut. Finding the energy to care is beyond him right now, and all he wants is water and sleep and being alone. He can get through this, he knows, he’s done it before. Sunday matinees, Avengers meetings, all of that; he’s pushed through to collapse on the other side, no one else aware. He can do it once more.

“Barton.” His name is sharp on Bucky’s tongue. “That’s not what I asked you.”

“I really don’t care right now.” He has a ridiculous urge to cover his face with his free arm, cut off the focus and maybe even find his happy spot again. His breathing’s gotten fucked up again. 

“Bullshit.” 

“What do you even know, _Barnes_. Just pick something or let me go.”

His grip on Clint’s wrist tightens slightly. “I know that you’re not someone I want to take control of or options away from. The whole damn world knows about me and my past, and I know enough about you to not take advantage of those same parts of your past. You wanna think about, fine, but tell me so I can go grab us a bottle first.”

“I...I don’t think I’ve heard you talk that much in one breath before.”

Bucky holds his gaze. “Want a glass?”

“Don’t get all fancy and shit on me now, Barnes. Isn’t it wartime tradition to share a bottle before surgery?” 

 

The whiskey is smooth and plentiful, the square bottle a reassuring weight in Clint’s left hand. Staring up at the ceiling, he’s only vaguely aware of Bucky returning from the bathroom. 

“Better?” Bucky’s all gloved up, pale white latex on tan and chrome, all of it a sharp contrast to his black tank top. 

“...Yeah.” Clint rolls his head over, not drunk but not _just_ buzzed, and thankfully Bucky’s smiling at him. “It time?”

Bucky nods as he moves towards the bed. “Yeah. Lemme get that,” he reaches over Clint, grabbing the bottle by the neck. Clint stares as he takes a swig.

“I thought that didn’t really work on you and Rogers any more?” 

Bucky shrugs. “Maybe, but the taste is still there.” He sets it down on the nightstand, next to the spread out first aid kit. 

“Can I?” Bucky moves his gaze to the space next to Clint. “You can put your hand on my leg if it’s more comfortable.”

_Your tree trunk thigh, you mean. _Clint wants to tell him. Yeah, the whiskey is running strong in his veins. _There are better ways of getting me here then stalking me through New York, Barnes___

__“Mmm, maybe,” Bucky murmurs and fuck, Clint wants to apologize cause he really didn’t mean to say that outloud, and now that he has it doesn’t make sense but Bucky’s fingers are soft on his fingers, his palm, tentative and searching._ _

__“Ready?” And Bucky’s voice is low, soft like when Kate talks to Lucky when it’s storming outside. Like how Steve talked to Bucky when he first came back from the brink of it all. Like when Tasha found him again, underneath the aquamarine. A quiet tone for damaged folk._ _

__“Yeah,” he gets out, already knowing that Bucky won’t start unless he hears actual words, not just a nod of the head. Clint’s gone through this before, has scars that map out the years he’s been doing reckless things, but none of that had been exactly like this._ _

__Bucky’s quiet, a completely different focus than what Clint’s used to seeing on his face. Although to be fair, most of his previous experiences have been with the Soldier, rather than Bucky. Bucky’s care is practiced, his movements smooth and steady._ _

__Clint doesn’t mean to curl up on his side, but stays careful about not moving his hand. He doesn’t mean to tighten up when it starts to hurt again, body curling around Bucky’s. Who is still sitting there on the edge of the bed, Clint’s hand bleeding onto his pants, cleaning the edges of the cut._ _

__“We’re almost there,” he murmurs. “I have the good painkillers for ya after this.” At Clint’s groan, Bucky sneaks a glance at his face. “Y’did good for me, sweetheart. Not that I’m a fan of it happening at all, but you sure made it easy for me to take over and fix you up.”_ _

__“I try not to half-ass things,” Clint murmurs, his voice muffled by his bicep and Bucky’s back and the warm wedge of space he found between them. If he moves too far to the left, he could probably poke his eye out on Bucky’s hipbone._ _

___God forbid._ _ _

__“You’ve done this before,” he continues, voice warm and easy from the liquor. It’s hard not to instinctively tighten around Bucky, to keep nuzzling in until he doesn’t have to think anymore. It’s the booze, Clint wants to blame, but it’s his brain, his anxiety and ptsd. It’s in his veins. It’s the touch-starved ache that threads through his muscles and flares up at the worst fucking times._ _

__“Yeah, with Stevie, in the way back days,” Bucky’s voice cuts into Clint’s internal monologue and thank god for small favors._ _

__“You’re really good.” Clint starts at the quick swipes of cold on his palm, the sharp smell of alcohol hitting his nose._ _

__Bucky barks out a laugh. “Nah, just had a lot of practice with this sorta thing. Not as many knife fights as black eyes though. Speaking of, I’m thinkin’ tape and bandages or super glue tonight. If it’s still bad in the morning we can try out stitches.”_ _

__“Try out…” Clint pulls back to stare at the side of Bucky’s face. “The fuck, Barnes.”_ _

__Clint watches Bucky take the gloves off, tossing them on the nightstand before grabbing the glass bottle. He takes a long pull before twisting around to look at Clint’s prone body. He has a soft smile, but there’s something in his eyes that Clint isn’t that fond of._ _

__“It’s a clean cut, just deep.” A dizziness hits Clint at Bucky’s words, and he closes his eyes against the rush in his head. “We can tape you up, give you some painkillers, and bandage the shit out of your hand so you don’t fuck it up tonight, and in the morning we can reconvene. Maybe even get a real doctor’s opinion.”_ _

__Clint’s shaking his head before Bucky finishes, and god if that’s not the second stupidest thing he’s done tonight. “Don’t need the painkillers, I’m good. And it’ll be fine, just tape it up. Please.”_ _

__The warmth from Bucky is suddenly too much, too close, and Clint feels that ache for darkness and quiet again. One long swig should do it, and he can just curl up in Bucky’s closet and sleep it all away. He was never much for sharing beds anyway._ _

__Bucky works fast, the layers of gauze and medical tape folding to cushion Clint’s palm. The room is silent save for the skritch of the tape dispenser, and before Clint knows it, Bucky’s done. He tries to scooch away from Bucky, to the middle of the bed, but he’s tangled up in booze and feelings and exhaustion, so he just closes his eyes against everything. The bed shifts as Bucky rises, and Clint can hear him cleaning up, taking supplies back to the bathroom and washing up. The room suddenly goes dark, only the bathroom light softly illuminating them. Clint takes a deep breath, the first full one since he entered Bucky’s room._ _

__“When’s the last time you _let_ someone else take care of you,” Bucky asks. “Not being forced into a hospital, or being made to stay put, which I guess this sorta is, but not like Natalia does.”_ _

__“Nu uh,” Clint makes sure to not shake his head this time. “You gotta be self-sufficient. There’s no use having a buddy to sew you up when you don’t have your buddy around.”_ _

__“That...that is some sad cynical shit, even for me.” Bucky’s voice gets closer. “You sure you never served, cause you’re cuttin’ close to my quick, doll.”_ _

__“‘m tired,” Clint mumbles, not wanting this to continue. He tries to bend his thumb towards his pinky in the dark, and while the wrapping keeps most of it stable, he can still feel the bite of pain. It’s a different type of warm comfort, and Clint tries to fall into it._ _

__But his heartbeat is hammering in his head, the alcohol betraying him and taking away his happy buzz. Too much of everything except what he wanted in the first damn place. The whole reason for leaving the Tower in the first place, for skipping Tony’s drinks, and looking for something new. Something different. Bucky is all too different, yeah, but he’s the sort of different that Clint can taste, the type he can already feel getting under his skin and making his home there._ _

__And Clint doesn’t want to dig him out._ _

__The light is low and Bucky’s feet are soft on the carpet, dragging enough for Clint to track his presence. From the center of the bed, he can feel the mattress shift, Bucky’s knees leaning against it._ _

__“I told you everything would be on your terms, with your okay.” Bucky’s voice is vibrating through Clint, and god everything aches and Clint can’t even begin to wrap his head around any of it. Just knows that wounded animals are dangerous and tend to self-isolate, and wasn’t that what he was trying to do in the first place?_ _

__“Your hand’s fine for tonight, you don’t gotta make any choices about that right now.” Bucky hasn’t moved. “Just one last one though,” and Clint can hear the struggle in Bucky’s words, the huff of frustration while forcing it all out._ _

__“I got a couch, I got all sorts of options in this ridiculous place, and I don’t wanna crowd you. But I don’t just wanna take off and leave you here alone, if you don’t want that.” The mattress finally shifts, and Clint knows it’s from Bucky leaning side to side, from nerves or impatience or frustration. He’s tired of making decisions._ _

__“If I said I don’t care…”_ _

__“Not a goddamn chance, Barton.”_ _

__“If I said...I don’t want to be completely alone,” he’s raw in the admittance, glad for the darkness. When the following silence starts to drag out, he huffs out a sad laugh at Bucky’s stubborn goodness. “Will you stay here with me?”_ _

__“Doll, all you had to do was ask.”_ _

**Author's Note:**

> I've been having a hell of a ~~week~~ ~~month~~ several years recently, and am coping through fanfic. Taking all my crap and putting it in Clint, and thinking that maybe if he can struggle out of the mental hole, take care of himself, forgive himself, etc., that maybe I can too. 
> 
>  
> 
> I'll do my best to keep the tags updated as I write, as I don't want anyone caught off-guard by any content. 
> 
>  
> 
> title from "Hallelujah" by Leonard Cohen


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